Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. “Cheveney!” she repeated. "To-night you shall be my wedded wife. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron.
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