Suppose our proper place is a shrine. Being a Chinaman in blood and instinct, he despised all spinsters; they were parasites. But that possibility had been anticipated. Her head ached with a hollow pain. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Nor can we. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. ” “You may be sure of the one,” she murmured. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself.
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