Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey. Things you would laugh at. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. ‘Eh bien, pig. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion.
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