She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. . ’ I said. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. But it's best to be on the safe side. "They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed. .
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