It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. That was what she was trying to make him understand. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage.
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