Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury. He handed Ruth a letter. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. “You delicate female!” “Who cares,” said Ann Veronica, “seeing it’s you? Warm, soft little wonders! Of course I want them. It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time.
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