Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. Death belongs to God, young man. Oh, it is unbearable. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself.
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