“I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform.
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