Spurling; "however I consent. I’m not a psycho. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ’ Pierced to the heart by the poignancy of this utterance, Gerald could neither move nor speak. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She had looked forward to an explanation.
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