If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. "You hear that," cried Mrs. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it.
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