She turned off the light and approached the window. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. I'll be with you in a jiffy. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. We leave this room together. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade.
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