When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. She had paid her bill, and she had enough left in her purse to pay many such. ‘On the contrary,’ Gerald argued, frowning. She is English! I am sure of that.
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