Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. She described it so vividly. ” She stared hard at her finger-nails. ” “It might become one,” he answered. “Looks like old times here, I see. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend.
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