A day will come when you will thank me. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. Which was not to say that ladies were not interested in him. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes.
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