Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. ’ ‘But he gives them to me.
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