The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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