‘Yes, I know. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. There was a deep groan, and the sound of a fall within. Old London Bridge. She spoke slowly. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse.
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