The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him. I wanted the magic of love. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress.
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