There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. It filled her with indefinable fear. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. He would know the truth then once and for all.
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