"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. "
The shock of hearing this title pronounced was equally distributed between Ruth
and her husband; but it aroused two absolutely different emotions. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets
again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has
already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less
energetic to repeat the operation. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools
of blood-red flame. "
The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her
life to tingle them into action.
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