She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. I said to myself at once, ‘Either this is a coincidence or the caper sauce. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. ” He too rose. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.
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