She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. 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. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. "My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so much as scream for help?" said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of surprise and horror. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate.
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