The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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