" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. You intrigue me. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. I wish nothing at all from them. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. I find it impossible to associate you with—my little friend of the ‘Ambassador’s.
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