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Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May), 1881-1939

"The Swindler and Other Stories"

At least, he would know that she was unworthy of that
which he had offered her. She took the ring from its hiding-place, and
once more the sunlight flashed upon its stones. For a space she stood
gazing fixedly, as one fascinated. And then, suddenly, inexplicably, her
eyes filled with tears, and she packed up the little box hurriedly with
fingers that trembled.
She directed the parcel to Tots, and put it aside with the intention of
posting it herself. A tiny strip of paper on the floor attracted her
attention as she turned. She picked it up. It was only Tots's simple
message in four short words. She caught her breath sharply as she
slipped it into her dress....
Home! Ruth Carey stood in the little inn-parlour that smelt of
honeysuckle and stale tobacco, and looked across the village street. It
looked even narrower than in the old days, and the pond on the green had
shrunk to a mere dark puddle. The old grey church on the hill looked
like a child's toy, and the quiet that brooded everywhere was the quiet
of stagnation. An ancient dog was limping down the road--the only living
thing in sight.
The girl turned from the window with a heavy sigh. She was conscious of
a great emptiness, of a craving too intense to be silenced, a feverish
longing that had in it the elements of a bitter despair. She had fled
from captivity to the desert. But she had not found relief.


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