It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. “Okay. I thank God for His sunlight on your face. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. In mailing the tales he had not enclosed return postage or the equivalent in money. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. Right now my heart is occupied.
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