" "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. She has an excellent remedy for a sprain. Lad, I admire you even in your folly.
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