“But—your people!” she gasped. "But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you von't live to pay me. McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. “But this is a surprise!” said Ramage. Trenchard glanced at the document.
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