It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square.
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