By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. I want to give myself to you. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest.
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