“He is not—I don’t like him. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. I’m taking no chances. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife.
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