“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. ” “Then I,” she said, “have too much character. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. But why did he turn away? "Wait!" Ruth called to her father.
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