The thing rankled in her mind night and day. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. I was—I was a corespondent. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters.
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