It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Mild, you know, and boon. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne.
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