It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. My Mom inherited our house from our Grandma, otherwise they never could have afforded it, not even twenty years ago. He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance.
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