That bruise will answer the same purpose. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean.
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