It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. " "At your peril, sirrah!" cried Wood. Men have seen to that. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. She paused.
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