My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. "Hoddy, Hoddy!… No, no! This is my father!" warned Ruth. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years.
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