"You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. "'The Man Who Could Not Go Home. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. She was shifting, moving back.
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