At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Then Mr. “Yes, aren’t they?” said Ann Veronica, after a thoughtful pause. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. There is no other way. I will take her away and make her serve me as my wife. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts.
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