" The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ” “Oh!” said Ann Veronica. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. It slipped out—as did that “she”.
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