“I should love to come. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. Then to Dan Ware's, in Hanging Sword Court. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact.
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