She had never seen her sitting on tables nor heard her discussing theology, and had failed to observe that the graceful figure was a natural one and not due to ably chosen stays. She caught her breath, and her eyes were lit with a sudden terror. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Ruth came to him directly.
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