He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about.
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