Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. Mrs Sindlesham raised her brows. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. The Master of the Mint IV.
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