“We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Spurlock. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you. .
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