Hollo rumbled in his throat. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. Had he not said as much at Remenham House? She allowed him to march her through the chapel without resistance. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. ” “Again,” he said, “I am going to be impertinent. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. I will be as silent as the grave. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. .
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