She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. We had no idea. So many distresses— so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me. I can’t but feel it’s an undesirable complication to drag in the Charvills at this point.
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