Her pa was only the smithy. Henceforth Ruth would closely observe her fellow women and note the hang of their skirts. “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. Here they would be having lunch. She wasn’t well-liked really, I think people were jealous of her. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow.
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