The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Salvation. Her anger died and she eyed him.
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