Ruth Enschede, Hartford, Conn. My foster mom works there as a second job. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. “Suppose I chuck it,” she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand —“suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! “Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come— “I could still go home!” She held Ramage’s check as if to tear it across. He gripped the window-sill behind him. “I don’t know. . " "That's reasonable. And you are something of a heroine, too. Ruth shivered; she was cold.
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