For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. " "What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know. The carte de jour was before Monsieur.
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