“So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. We’ll have some buttered toast. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Thames Street was wholly impassable.
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