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I don’t know. 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. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. “Julian, I don’t want to get married!” She blinked in 119 disbelief as she saw how hurt he was by her reply. But it is not your name. .
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