There was. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. But all those empty years!… My heart was hot. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. She could not stir hand or foot.
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