“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. Hill closed his eyes. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. I have no intention of arresting you. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. He's passed through some rough mental torture.
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