One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. 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. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance.
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