The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. "I give you all of my genius, and you say—'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog.
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