There was no one stirring in the flats. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Never really thought about Him—people don’t. After all, they’re history in the making. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. He put his arms around her in a circular embrace. Give up your lonely hours of work here.
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