The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. We haven’t. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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