Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. There was one letter. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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