" "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations.
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