The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration.
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