Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. Her face expressed nothing. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them.
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