Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. " "Probably Mr. ” “I cannot do it!” he cried hoarsely. When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes. " "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. "It's Mrs. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha'n't hinder him. I was his wife. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ’ A radiant smile dawned.
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