Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. “You’re mad, Sebastianus. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. Leave the means to me. . Too close, he reasoned, for safety. But it's confounded inconvenient.
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