His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. She hoped that Shari would not be too brokenhearted about her disappearance. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. Les Misérables, A Tale of Two Cities, Henry Esmond, The Last Days of Pompeii, The Marble Faun … Love stories! Until her arrival in Singapore, she had never read a novel. The dismal tolling of St. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them.
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