The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. She ran towards the arched stone door, her mouth forming an “O” of surprise as she realized that she was in the high turret of an ocean side castle. I wonder. The man himself was not a pleasant object. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. He said. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. An hour later the doctor arrived; and after a thorough examination, he looked doubtful. “Well, rather,” said Ann Veronica. He was mad.
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