The Storm. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love.
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