Come along home, Ruth. . . But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. “Stupid cow. “We pretend bodies are ugly. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Pretend to weep both of you as loudly as you can. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. ’ Gosse blinked.
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