She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. I can’t love you.
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