It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush. It was no easy matter to determine her age, for, though she still retained a certain youthfulness of appearance, she had many marks in her countenance, usually indicating the decline of life, but which in her case were, no doubt, the result of constant and severe indisposition. No, not one little bit. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. The door closed softly upon her. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment.
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