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Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. ” He said. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. ” “Think not,” that young man remarked laconically. ‘Parbleu, the house, is it broken in the least? I do not think so. ” She wondered how much history she could reinvent before losing track of her own lies.
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