They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. The Father did not know of course about her connection with the Valades. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers’ had yielded very disappointingly. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. She was no longer there. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain. ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot.
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