Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Even as a child she observed how men were haunted 18 by the presence of her mother.
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