"And you have seen … drunken men?" Prudence's tones were full of suppressed horror. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life.
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