She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. She was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the answers. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. We WERE thieves.
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