His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. “I am happy.
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