"At the bottom of that big envelope I found this one. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. He knew it was unnerving, he did it to everyone, even his own kin. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. "My name is Ruth Enschede. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. Hill again—alive.
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