“I’m not going to kill you, John. My birthday was on May first. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. It was easy enough to lie to anyone else. Obviously he is still interested. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities.
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