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That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. One who—who—tres. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest.
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