If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. "I am sorry. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. "At length, I have my wish," continued Mrs. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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