Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. The smell that emanated from the opening was abominable. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account.
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