Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. “These are the playgrounds of life. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right.
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