The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. ‘Tell me, my boy. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged.
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