A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Sydney Courtlaw—Mr. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. ‘This we will leave. You cannot possibly leave me here alone with Gerald. The world is known to you.
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