I'll be outside the hotel at nine-thirty. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. He loved the sea, and could give a good account of himself in any weather. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. He drew her away from this thought.
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