Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. ” He was a little bewildered. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron.
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