She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Everyone has gone away again, so that I can do so all alone. I worshipped her and subdued myself. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Happy Birthday, then. The chair is in the veranda. ” She implored him.
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