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Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. He looked at her reproachfully. “I do not think that he is quite dead.
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