" The Wastrel tried to reach Ruth's lips. Earles drew out his cheque book. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. CHAPTER XXXI. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. I’m not to study, I’m not to grow. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me.
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