She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air.
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