"May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. Kneebone assures me he didn't receive them, I can't do otherwise than believe you. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper.
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