‘Who has begun this but you?’ Gerald barely heard her. “I wish he had,” she said. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. . . You care for me just a little, I know. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She loved him. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. I promise not to do it again.
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