Gerald crossed back to the window. The attempt was unsuccessful. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. “Yes, I believe he is. The militia offered little in the way of relief. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter.
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