That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat.
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