She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. I don’t want to know. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. I shouldn't care to express an opinion. But Jack and his companion were already gone.
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