What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. . . As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. “That is as you will,” she said. ’ You have no right to call yourself ‘Alcide. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. He was staring at her, openly gaping.
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