He was followed with equal celerity by Terence and the widow. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny.
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