It ought never to have begun. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep.
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