She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. ” Annabel shrugged her shoulders. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. ” She felt his heart warming the small room like a radiator. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. My son is going to build a spaceship to Mars someday right in this room.
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