She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. " "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. "Caught!" shouted the head-turnkey. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. So far she had the utmost difficulty in getting on to that vitally important matter.
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