It was so difficult to put precisely. He was as hard as a rock. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. And of course! She had a brilliant idea.
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