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Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. Ruth loved him. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor.
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