He was a philosopher. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. It was an impulse. “Cool. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. ‘I thought, you see, that we might as well enter by the same way our intruder had done. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. Miss Stanley reflected on this proposal for a moment.
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