‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. How easily an evil thought could penetrate a normally decent mind! All he had to do was to disclose Spurlock's destination, and in a few months Ruth would be free. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. You’ve got to take what you can get. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights.
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