" The prison bars of circumstance, they no longer encompassed her. CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. “When did you start?” She said between puffs. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days.
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