She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Once in, the constable's manner appeared totally changed. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. It amounted to two-and-twenty pounds. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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