“What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “They’re very good this year,” said Ann Veronica, avoiding controversial matter. “I remember you now,” he said. From then on he was Ruth's dog. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. Relief flooded her. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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