Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. The chance had gone. Her stomach growled, and she clutched at it in reaction, haphazardly observing that the gown had been changed to silk.
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