"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. . Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's.
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