The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major.
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