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. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. Anyhow, it were me as got you down to the wetnurse. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle.
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