The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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