Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. But this was a vicomte’s sister. You had better go to bed. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. She will not confide in me.
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