"You poor child!" said Prudence. Ruth returned to the table. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ” She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. Sheppard. She prevaricated. “Now, there, there. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park.
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