He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends. ” He smiled at her. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. I don’t conceal it.
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