Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. ‘Come inside at once, child. ’ Her lashes fluttered. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. " "On no account," rejoined Wood peremptorily. . Her father was right: Ruth must never know. “It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. .
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