No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. “I’m not sure whether we don’t rather overdo all this higher education,” he said, with an effect of conveying profound meanings. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. She felt like a dried-up old woman. Too skilled to advertise their presence by a show of arms and men. Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her.
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