” “That is provokingly indefinite,” he answered, a little ruefully. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. Ruth loved him. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. .
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