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It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. .
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