She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes. The Wastrel did not relish this. Her head ached with a hollow pain. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. You are taking it for granted that I am ‘Alcide. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. “You will not object,” he said, glancing towards her, “to accepting a deposit.
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