“Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. She was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence.
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