But days had now passed. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. How I envied those kids whose Moms picked them up when they got hurt or sick! I fainted in Gym Class when they made me climb the rope. And the way he and the other men looked at her! The desire was plain on their faces, so many noblemen reduced to their simplest elements! They looked at her sideways, they looked at her backside, scanning her blue eyes and even looking right into her face. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. It was a sickening process, and the sucking sound was sure to wake up Ray’s mother. I think she might be up to something.
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