when I was five. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. Amidst it all, however, there were several light-hearted and laughing groups walking from cell to cell to whom all this misery appeared matter of amusement. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. Maybe later.
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