He laughed lightly. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. Certainly not a gentlewoman. Its heroes never had daughters, they borrowed other people’s. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. ” “Oh no he doesn’t. ” “Your sister,” he answered, “did me the honour of dining with me last night. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river.
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