She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. You have to marry me. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. “It’s something that bothers me. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. “We do not want the men,” said Miss Miniver; “we do not want them, with their sneers and loud laughter. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. Little by little, she stopped hating him.
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