” Horace, the manservant, transformed now into the semblance of a correctly garbed waiter, threw open the door. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. The door to the room in question was closed. I didn’t allow myself to see things as they were in those days; now I do. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. Every one turned to her in astonishment. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. “I did everything I could to save your baby, Lucia, I have the medical knowledge to cure almost anything, but the Pestilence struck you too fast.
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