Her father was right: Ruth must never know. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. Now it occurred to him that to show her the sealed letter would be a better way.
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