She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. I was in the front row, and I fancied she smiled at me. When she had finished the first tale, there was a sense of disappointment.
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