The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. That is not reasonable. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed.
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