It was red and chapped. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. "But you said you weren't particular. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry.
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