He was not there. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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