In a sense it alters nothing. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
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