The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. ’ ‘That’s right,’ agreed the militiaman, coming forward to stand before her. “Too greasy for me. One OUGHT to want to please her. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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