His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. "How shall I get to you?" "My yacht is in the river. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 17-06-2024 12:18:00
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