Ruth was something to study for future copy; she was almost unbelievable. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. But this I cannot do.
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