He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘But it is not on the horse at all, Jacques. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. We've got to get him to care.
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