CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. “Do you know that boy very well, Shar?” Cathy Beck yelled in the general direction of the lavatory. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “Why should it matter?” he said. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window.
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