You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. I want to give myself to you. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now.
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