"Come," said Wild, turning authoritatively to Jack,—"you have overstayed your time. . . Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. He'd never forgive you. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them.
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