Come along home, Ruth. Tears sprang to her eyes. Montague Hill. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course.
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