"And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded. ‘Come, cry a truce. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. 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. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. He dug about in his mind for a term to fit her, and he came upon the word new. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. I did not know what God had in mind then.
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