So Ruth found that for a while her eyes were free. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. He knew it was unnerving, he did it to everyone, even his own kin.
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