Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. . So long as matters remain as they are, and they found me, there would be no shame for Ruth. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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