He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. He got up brusquely. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. That’s why I come to tell you.
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