“Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.
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