And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. I don’t idealize you. Just. ” “Wait,” she said. But he might have broken out of prison, and yet not got over the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams.
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