She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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