Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations. It was time to leave America. Well, let's beat it to the hotel. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney.
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