Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. She was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. “I mean to,” she replied. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. There’s nothing a girl can do that isn’t sweated to the bone.
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