The boy she had loved was gone. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book. D. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him.
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