" This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth. "How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?" "Put them where they came from," replied Mrs. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. Mrs. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud.
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