Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. “You need not be alarmed,” he said. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy.
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