“I don’t mean simply intensity of sensation. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Jackson, gallantly. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. You're luck. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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