What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. “Dear husband,” she murmured. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it.
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