CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. It’s that has always made me—SHE, you know, was drawn into a set—didn’t discriminate Private theatricals. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John.
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