When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. .
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