“Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. He handed Ruth a letter. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air.
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