She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it. She pushed. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all.
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