He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. “Well, well, Martin.
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