Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. Then her eyes flashed. She was unusually helpful at breakfast, and unselfish about the eggs: and then she went off to catch the train before her father’s. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. She knew that babies came from the womb; her womb had fallen out with her baby. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. Shoplatch. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say. He held in his hands many threads.
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