Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. Stanley. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never.
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