"You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “John, we should be getting out of here. Everything, my dear, everything!. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones.
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