"There's the exact expression I want. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. I'll call it my wedding gift. I wouldn't accept my life from him. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt.
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