He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica.
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