It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. He took a sip of punch and commenced his relation. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. To take Spring and Love out of her life, as if there were no human instincts to tell Ruth what was being denied her! And what must have been the man's thought as he came upon Ruth wearing a gown of her mother's? —a fair picture of the mother in the primrose days? Not a flicker of an eyelash; steel and granite outwardly. For a long time neither spoke again. "You know my fixed determination," he added in a low tone, as he passed the carpenter.
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