She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. An action which gave Gerald furiously to think. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination.
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