To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. “Something. Listen to me, Thames. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head. Montague Hill.
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