The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. Oh! and love—love! We’ve had so splendid a time, and fought our fight and won. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Quite ordinary. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess. Wild. See paragraph 1.
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