“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. “Yes, I remember,” she said. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils.
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