In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer.
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