There was the motor accident, too. But stand by and hear such things said about my late mistress’s daughter, I won’t. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room. Man, if you tell her you love her, and later they took you away to prison, who would sit at the prison gate until your term was up? Ruth.
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