But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. That is so awful.
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