Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts.
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