The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. . “No,” she answered, reluctantly. It was dangerous for her to dare approaching him and she knew the tremendous risk she was taking, but a part of her demanded that he be found. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition.
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