Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Ruth could not be told now. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. ” “You do not understand me at all,” she declared. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years.
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