"A husband has little to fear from
his wife's kinsfolk. The shops were lighting up into
gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she
had lost her way. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was
still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite
of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large
horny hand to the prisoner. He
could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to
limbo—made the idea repellant. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very
dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest
but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. She had prepared
herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Yes—as he would have liked. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. “Sit down,” he
said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 07-07-2024 09:24:17