Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. “Is it your maid?” he asked. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at home in a moment. Them young prigs is all alike.
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