She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “A little nervous. In their happiest times, he was the most faithful and devoted of husbands. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Master, your humble servant. I hated him. Easily.
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