In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is.
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