‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. “Quite on my own,” she said. We have so much to be thankful for.
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