‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. I will dedicate my books to you. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his.
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