Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. One doesn’t want to lose a grain. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. He hated himself a little for it.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxOS4xMTUuMjAgLSAwMy0wNi0yMDI0IDE3OjQ3OjA0IC0gNzY5OTU3MzUz
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