Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. “Didn’t you just get over an ear infection not two weeks ago? You’re asking for another one. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things. I'm not interested in him. It was bleeding again. The stench is everywhere. That’s about the beginning.
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