Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. ” “Any one could see that the girls were ladies,” Ennison murmured. "I'm going back for Ruth. ‘This is not love, Marthe. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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