Sheppard," said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; "what brings you to town, eh?— Nothing amiss, I trust?" "Nothing whatever, Sir," answered the widow. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. It isn’t illusions—for us. "Mr. ’ So that was it.
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