He tried to make love to me. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. . That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. I meant to lie to you. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday.
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