Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. It’s that father of yours you take after, no question. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. You never can go back. The fresh air, which blew in his face, greatly revived him. But this is not sufficient.
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