It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “Who?” She asked. "Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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