Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. "Good-bye!" For a moment Ruth was tempted to fling herself against the withered bosom; but long since she had learned repression. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. Larry was able to retire. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Manning came into her thoughts again, an unexpected, tall, dark, self-contained presence at the Fadden. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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