It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. It jars with all my ideas. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. “Well, well, Martin. ” She said.
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