Perhaps, after all, the others were right. The gate was opened; the coffin brought into the churchyard; and Jack, whose eyes were filled with tears, saw Mr. . “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. It’s these damned novels. ” He commented, seeing the car in the drive. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
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