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. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. He leaned forward to better drink her in. I wanted the magic of love.
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