Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone.
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