‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. S. Her efforts were vain. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. She wrapped a leg around him. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot.
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