The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. She looked at him curiously. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. They have no amenities, they scratch the mellow surface of things almost as if they did it on purpose; and Lady Palsworthy and Mrs. He saw her eyes pass him and settle on a fleetingly pretty strawberry blond girl and her effeminate father.
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