Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister.
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