” She shook her head. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. He put his free arm around her and held the censer ready; and as Ruth snuggled her cheek against his sleeve, they were, so far as intent, in each other's arms. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Besides, she had admitted her identity.
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