She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. She took a deep breath. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. “He has said something of the sort. He thanked God for this talent of his. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. Her father was right: Ruth must never know.
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