“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. In fine, to marry Ruth (if she would consent) as a punishment for what he had done! To whip his soul so long as he lived, but to let his body go free! To provide for her, to work and dream for her, to be tender and thoughtful and loyal, to shelter and guard her, to become accountable to God for her future. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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