" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. “They never seem so at first!” he said. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. "Eggs for me! You mistake, child. Something in his tone pinched her heart. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. F. Funk! I’ll see it out.
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