Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Don’t be frightened, dear. It was no easy matter to determine her age, for, though she still retained a certain youthfulness of appearance, she had many marks in her countenance, usually indicating the decline of life, but which in her case were, no doubt, the result of constant and severe indisposition. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. There was a case, or something, some years ago.
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