Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. “I too am asked. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. " "What's that?" asked Wood with some curiosity.
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