F. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. And what a noise they made! This is how I used to call them. "No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd. .
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