“He says you are frigid, Madame. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. You're always complaining that you can't keep anybody more than three months. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Marry me. Ruth?" "Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile.
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