‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. “Yes, I remember,” she said. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings.
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