He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. He had already shown the covering envelope and its instructions to Ruth, and she had ignored or misunderstood the warning. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. Only in her eyes there seemed to be some apprehension of the fact that the young man’s clothes and manners were alike undesirable things. “Really,” she said. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
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