" On a shelf was placed a row of paint-jars; the contents of which had been daubed in rainbow streaks upon the adjacent closet and window sill. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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