In the presence of the husband of his mistress Rollo was always dignifiedly cheerful, but he never leaped or cavorted as he did when alone with Ruth. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. The door closed softly upon her. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. ” “No.
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