"Mr. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. " The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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