Gerald watched her vanish into the darkness, unusually incensed. Balked, Melusine halted. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace.
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