” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born. “My child, I do not wish. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “Or I know another one who wears cologne.
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