It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. Tears flowed in rivulets down 121 her cheeks and she began to cry.
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