Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. “I look older. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains.
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