The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. Wood turned to look at him. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her.
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