I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. "Friday!" echoed Mrs. out of the ten or twelve people one meets in a month not only say but feel and assume a thing, it is very hard not to fall into the belief that the thing is so. ***** In the daytime the streets of the ancient city of Canton are yet filled with the original confusion—human beings in quest of food.
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