It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. So that way is closed. He grunted, and his grip gave. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. “You are absurd,” she declared. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration.
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