He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. Naturally he was a member of the National Honor Society and a straight A student on the Honor Roll. ‘I told you I could handle her.
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