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" "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. “Indeed I shall not forget your offer. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrapped about in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose to stay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in your party, at an hotel. She looked at him curiously. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. His assistance came too late.
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