" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. They cleaned up the mess as best they could and she went home with him docilely. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. Fast. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. ‘You have every right to be angry with me.
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