It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. But I did hear something else from Leah Goldblum. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage.
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