“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. I did not reckon upon—him. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. It would be the wrappered world almost at its best. Last night there had been no time. “Stop,” he said. “After all, why should he be surprised?” she remarked.
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