"Look at him!" Ruth looked. His inclinations prompted him most decidedly to take the vacant chair. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. She used to play violin, you know. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast.
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