When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. After all, that was life. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. Not then. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand.
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