After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. Kneebone. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty.
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