He seemed to have expected them. She had seen Mrs. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. She threw him his car keys. Can you kill yourself?” He asked quietly. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep.
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