She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. But he didn’t marry her. I wonder. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. I feel that I shall stifle unless I can do something—and do something soon. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII.
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