You are—horrible. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. . The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within.
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