The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Twice we hired caterers. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see.
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