The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. The Law was around the corner and down the narrow hall, puffing a Virginia Slims Menthol in frantic sips, teetering uncomfortably out of an emergency exit door. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. They are very good people, you know. While you live in my house you must follow my ideas. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. I don’t idealize you. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. 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.
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