"Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. ‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. You are greatly altered. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. I felt his heart.
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