The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. "What shall I do? If I persist, I shall destroy her. . . ” “Tell me more. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. , etc.
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