She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. ” He recovered himself. This she put into the trunk.
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