She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. Amongst them was a revolver. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. I asked him—to take me away.
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