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Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. “Well?” she said. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. “Too greasy for me. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. Ennison stood by her side. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. Ruth came to him directly. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said.
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