‘Gabbling and muttering in a foreign tongue, that’s what I heard, sir,’ had declared the gap-toothed ancient, when he told them of the initial foray he had made, sneaking around the house in the dark. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. You’ve got to take what you can get. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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