Huge trees obscured the view of it. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. They had changed identities absolutely. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. She felt that she was not alone.
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