It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. "Mr. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. ” “Coffee! Bah!” The newcomer picked her way across the floor with daintily uplifted skirts, and subsided into a deck chair of stretched canvas. “I suppose, daddy, you’ve no objection to my going on with my work at the Imperial College?” she asked.
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