“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. He guided himself between her legs.
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