"Good-bye!" For a moment Ruth was tempted to fling herself against the withered bosom; but long since she had learned repression. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she contented herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover, and encouraging him by her gestures. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. "Be silent," said Jonathan, striding deliberately into the room; "these cries will avail you nothing. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Gerald’s judgement was borne out a moment later.
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