She chuckled. “It was a plot amongst them all to humiliate her. The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. CHAPTER XIX.
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