. " Ruth repeated the word, not in the effect of a query, but ruminantly. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet.
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