The room they were in was a sort of closet, with the door locked outside; but this was only a moment's obstacle to Jack, who with a chisel forced back the bolt. Wood?" "With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. But all of that was forgotten. He saw that she was tense. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within. "I must go. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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