When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. ’ ‘It was so,’ said Valade, becoming a trifle more fluent. Without hindrance—present occupation. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress.
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