Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. She had never heard anything so unholy. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for.
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