So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. I've a question to ask him.
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