Little more’n a week. 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. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. "Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. He was apt to play so many games, she was afraid she might have misunderstood.
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