The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. To-morrow they will know the truth. There is no Heaven for your mother. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. "You will find it true," replied Blueskin. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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