His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Youth! You denied me even that," said Ruth, her glance now flashing to her father. ” “I don’t have power over men’s fates. \"Borrowed a pencil. ’ Fury was in her face. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck.
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