With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. " "Willingly. He seemed to deliberate. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea.
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