She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. ’ ‘Ah, the matter begins to come clear,’ Gerald said. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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