The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Winny, my love, come with me. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. All the influences about her worked with her own predisposition and against all the traditions of her home and upbringing to deal with the facts of life in an unabashed manner. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know.
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