Much too young for you. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. Lucy saw it happen as if in slow motion.
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