He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season. He declined supper, but took wine. Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. Her foster parents had attended the concert in their finest clothes, Cathy in a new JC Penney dress, Larry in a suit that was too small. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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