He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. We don’t consider each other; we needn’t. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. She could feel her face turning beet red. And nothing to tell her where to begin. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again.
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