“Mr. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Better to remain silent.
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