None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute.
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