‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. He seemed to have expected them. Practically. “I might go home, I don’t know. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do.
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