He realized that he was committed to the path across the fields, an uninteresting walk at the best of times. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. " The spinster did not ask if the mother lived; the question was inconsequent. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace.
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