Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. In Paddington. The room seemed a vacuum. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter.
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