Was there no echo anywhere in Miss Stanley’s pacified brain? Those empty rooms, if they were empty, were the equivalents of astoundingly decorated predecessors. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. The door was then locked, and he was left alone. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron.
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