He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. He's down in Patagonia somewhere.
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