‘Difficult, I grant you. It was. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. ‘Not but what it was near that before Jarvis died.
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