She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads.
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