She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. So get up, and let's be off. "Ruth?" "Hoddy!" she cried. “Great, Cathy.
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