His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. Something in her tone made him look up. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. Also he is ugly. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. "You think our sex has no feeling, I suppose, Sir," cried Mrs. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window.
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