It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. ’ ‘I have English a little,’ the girl offered, her voice shaking as she essayed a smile and sank into a curtsy.
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