Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. He’ll do. He could not kiss Ruth. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. And for many years, that was the way it was. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. But not today. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite.
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