She No Longer Believed In Talk. It

The Sun Came Through The Branches Of The Tree Above Her, And Ruth Looked Up Past Them. "i Think She Listens," She Said, Too Softly To Be Heard.

It's Something That I Know How To Do Because I Taught For A Very Long Time, So I Can Do It, And I Feel A Responsibility To Do It - For Instance, In This Situation, Where I'm Touring Specifically For This Period Of Time. But Most Writers Are Not Public People. There Are A Few Writers Out There Who Really Enjoy It And Are Good At It, And Can Both Work And Do That At The Same Time, But I'm Not One Of Those People.

The Stains Could Be Seen Only In The Sunlight, So Ruth Was Never Really Aware Of Them Until Later, When She Would Stop At An Outdoor Cafe For A Cup Of Coffee, And Look Down At Her Skirt And See The Dark Traces Of Spilled Vodka Or Whiskey. The Alcohol Had The Effect Of Making The Black Cloth Blacker. This Amused Her; She Had Noted In Her Journal: 'booze Affects Material As It Does People'.

But She Was Waiting Patiently. She No Longer Believed In Talk. It Never Rescued Anything. At Seventy She Had Come To Believe In Time Alone. ~pg 254

Before, They Had Never Found Themselves Broken Together. Usually, It Was One Needing The Other But Not Both Needing Each Other, And So There Had Been A Way, By Touching, To Borrow From The Stronger One's Strength.