To Ruth came that of the great world, her lawful lover at her side; and there would be glorious books into each of which he would unconsciously put a little of her soul along with his own, needing her always. Like carpenter, like chips. Not much. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage.
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