"You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. Everything was blurred. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready.
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