"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at once resorted to distraction. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. "Aliva, your child perished with its father. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. 235 “No, I think she’s out sick with a throat infection.
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