It was now a quarter past twelve. Ruth shivered; she was cold. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension.
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