In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. CHAPTER XXIII. "My name is Ruth Enschede. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. E. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. ’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede. .
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