Ruth loved him. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Such pretty manners, she thought.
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