Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. "You mistake,—you are mine. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. You may go back, Marthe.
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