Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction.
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