Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Youth! You denied me even that," said Ruth, her glance now flashing to her father. "There were some marks near the window; but whether recently made or not could not be ascertained," replied Winifred. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair.
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