Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. He walked in her direction. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. .
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