Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. “It isn’t quite that we’re toys.
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