I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. The world is like a peppery horse. .
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