" The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. “Quite right,” she said. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She was trembling a little. " He had now gained the high road. I have been stupid and foolish. “But—your people!” she gasped.
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