The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. Her patience was waning fast. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. She showered after she heard the door shut and the cars pull out of the driveway. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. It cost her seventy-seven dollars.
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