"Please hurry the ammonia;" and Ruth turned away abruptly. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. E. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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