Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. . ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. The man looked hard at him. She interrupted. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. Like stealing.
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