She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. "I know my life is valuable to you, or you would not spare it. “There’s twenty before you, and Mr. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by.
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