“I wish he had,” she said. “She must look forward to Italy. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. He had already shown the covering envelope and its instructions to Ruth, and she had ignored or misunderstood the warning. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it.
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