It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. ” Her hand hung over the side of her chair nearest to him. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt.
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