“His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm.
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