For thirty years I have lived alone; but once upon a time I lived among men. Ruth, standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. To compare me to a starving pig. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. I do not blame you for the act. ” “That doesn’t explain sunsets. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. We were only—les autres.
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