"I am your most unhappy son. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. It wasn’t. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge.
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