As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. You had better let me go again. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. He pulsed and thrust as he released himself into her body. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. She was weeping now.
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