The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. ‘I do not know of whom you speak. The door closed softly upon her. I would speak with you. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. She asked no further questions for the moment.
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