He patted the hand on his sleeve. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John’s. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. .
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