F. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. ‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand.
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