But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. The Robbery in Willesden Church XVI. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round.
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