Or mad, just as the captain had said so many times. Only in her eyes there seemed to be some apprehension of the fact that the young man’s clothes and manners were alike undesirable things. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. Ruth was something to study for future copy; she was almost unbelievable.
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