He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She drew it out with shaking fingers. After a while one began to talk. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. I came in by the vestry, and we will go out that way again. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else.
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