Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. "Given a chance, I can make bread and butter. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. All I can say is, it's well meant; and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if you'd given me the opportunity.
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