There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. This moment couldn’t be better until the next moment comes. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. We dine at seven-thirty. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. But I never found any truth in the saying.
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