"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. To-morrow I am going to Paris. Giles's round-house. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. Never mind.
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