It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Besides, it was under false pretences. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her.
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