A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. He drew a little breath and stepped back. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. " "It's mine, I'll be sworn," rejoined Wood. It’s these damned novels. There it is. “I was sick of the make-believe. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris.
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