He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. ‘I’m following a scent. Everyone will grumble to you confidentially—Miss Ellicot, she’s our swagger young lady, you know—up there, next to Miss White, she will tell you that it is so out of the world here, so far away from everyone one knows. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm.
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