You're alone, too, child. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella.
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