Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. Not for me. A neat tale, giving little away. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. Then before she could say a word to arrest him he was at her side.
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