‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. This time you cannot. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. Then there was also the horse. Brendon dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. Next moment, he had Melusine by the arm. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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