For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “I was really interested in his stuff. Sometimes I think I’ll miss them and I start to cry, but I’m ready to have a life of my own.
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