So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. . " "It matters not what I think," replied Wild.
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