She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. How old are you?’ ‘I have nineteen years, and it is quite unimportant.
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