The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. .
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