It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. It’s time she knew. Neither the American Express nor Cook's had received mail for Howard Taber; he was not on either list. I don’t care what divides us. “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. But I can easily bring in a sing-song girl to play for you. ‘I told you I could handle her. 1. Wood.
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