"I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. She galloped up the small stairs, hearing that Shari had finally risen. "The door's open, and the room empty. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. That was what she was trying to make him understand.
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