“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. “We settled long ago—we’re hard stuff. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. The poor child! What frightful things she must have seen on that island of hers! The noise of crashing glass caused a diversion; and Ruth turned gratefully toward the sound. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning.
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