"Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. The kind of man who isn’t content with his science, and writes articles in the monthly reviews. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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