Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. ’ She flounced back to stare out of the window again. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. “There’s no one here except me. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. . . You have never known what it is to want food, raiment, shelter. Her father was right: Ruth must never know.
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