He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. He stabbed into her with brute force. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. She felt his crotch through his jeans. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. He gripped the window-sill behind him. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself.
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