She glanced at him. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. My heart fails me. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep.
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