She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. Best assured of that. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Until then we mean to keep on hammering away. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes.
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