She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses. ’ The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow. Winny, my love, come with me.
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