"Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. Ruth had not expected to be kissed; so the omission passed unnoted. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know.
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