She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “You poor thing. He spoke in quick nervous sentences. The four tourists contributed varied sums: the spinsters ten cents each, the girl a shilling, the young man a Mexican dollar. If you can do any good with him, it's more than we can. ” She swept out of the room. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame.
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