These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. Little more’n a week. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else.
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