I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. “My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden. The walls were bare, and painted in stone-colour; the floors, devoid of carpet; the beds, of hangings; the windows, of blinds; and, excepting in the thief-taker's own audience-chamber, there was not a chair or a table about the premises; the place of these conveniences being elsewhere supplied by benches, and deal-boards laid across joint-stools. My nerves are shaken. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. I think not. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. Three short days. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it.
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