’ He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful study of what he could see of her face. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. She advanced, stabbing at him. It was so hopeless to put it to them.
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