"If you touch me I will kill you," said Ruth, grasping the scissors which lay beside the pencils—Hoddy's! The Wastrel laughed, still advancing. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. Some of your sex, I mean.
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