” The figure of her aunt, a little distant, a little propitiatory, behind the coffee things, filled her with a sense of almost catastrophic adventure. " "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. I’m sorry. " "Poh! poh! say no more about it," rejoined the man hastily. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. "You want me, then?" she said.
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