But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. . He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. “Just at present my mind simply won’t take hold of this at all. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. He was interesting and inconclusive, and the original papers to which he referred her discursive were at best only suggestive. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. I should like Mr.
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