It isn’t what I have been but what I am. The others hurried to the window. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ” He took them from her and read them.
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