She went to her own table
and sat down. An unwelcome idea came
to him. You can think all round me. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no
movement, nothing about him that warmed. The thought of beauty became an obsession. He then unlocked a cabinet, opened a secret drawer,
and, lifter ransacking its contents, discovered a paper he was in search of, and a
glove. "
He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have
recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son. I should lose
every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. It was dry,
as if she had powdered it. A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical
outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency,
regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to
Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked
well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and
sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the
incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose
place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop
had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 22-07-2024 14:33:06