It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. “You see the pointer?” he asked. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. At a little distance from the party, sat a tall, sinister-looking personage, with harsh inflexible features, a gaunt but muscular frame, and large bony hands. 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. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. She directed the orchestra to tune again. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement.
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