And let us go on with our evening. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. Before he could return, Jack had made good his retreat; and, wandering about the lanes and hedges, kept out of sight as much as possible. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda. He knocked at the door.
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