The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. But she had spent nearly half of it, and had no conception of how such a sum could be made good again. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils.
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