The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. But she must not laugh. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. " "I don't wonder at it," rejoined Gay. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. The door to the library burst open. "Victoria; that's the hotel.
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