When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. "Coupling their presence with Jack's speech, I couldn't help fearing some mischief might ensue. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. But he wrote on.
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