She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. Saviour's Stairs. It’s these damned novels. It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. But it is all very different.
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