It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. Better check on Remenham House, I suppose. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject.
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