It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill. She decided to call in the help of Teddy Widgett, or, failing him, of one of his sisters. She could not help but admit that she liked being smiled at and addressed in the hallways by hordes of friendly faces. Wood in the deepest mourning.
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