Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. “My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill.
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