Lonesomeness isn't my worry. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. " The doctor relaxed. Beneath the hood it was evident that her rebellious hair was bound up with red silk, and fastened by some device in her ears (unless she had them pierced, which was too dreadful a thing to suppose!) were long brass filigree earrings. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence.
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