Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. On the second day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day, his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the foremast and back. She missed them already. Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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