No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. No matter. " "So do I," replied Ruth. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on. The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. . ” “We will,” said Miss Miniver, refusing to be suppressed, “if some of us have to be killed to get it. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. ” She looked at him, pleading, miserable in her fancy gown. “I have spoken too many truths to-night.
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