There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere.
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