It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “I will be off,” she declared. ” The man nodded. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid.
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