It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. And that would spoil it.
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