The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Courtlaw is looking after you, Miss Pellissier,” she said. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder.
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