The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. She was going through a new world with him side by side. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. But they been good to me, they have, sir. It was a brief solitude, however. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly.
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