Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. "All right," he said.
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