She detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort.
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