“Goodnight. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. ’ ‘Well, she didn’t walk through the walls, that’s certain,’ said Hilary acidly. "I advised him not to trouble you farther about Jack Sheppard," answered the supposed janizary. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love.
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