A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. There’s a hansom coming round the corner. They must be for your father. ‘I do not know how you think you may help me,’ she said slowly. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets.
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