After that consolations fled. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. He had heard nothing. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. .
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