“Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick.
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