The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. “By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. The baby did not strike at Sebastian. “So, since when does a grown man have to sneak behind the Laundromat to smoke a cigarette?” She asked 115 him. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. Jonathan nodded assent. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. You're an angel of goodness.
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