There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. “You no longer belong to Gianfrancesco. “We parted— that night the best of friends. ” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards.
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