She would marry him. She told us that it was a disguise. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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