No good at all. "If you get out o' that cage, I'll forgive you. I can’t love you. ” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. Nobody who cared. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. I hope we may never find her again. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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