He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. The worst was over now. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
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