Only my father he is also of a disposition extremely stupide. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship.
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