In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. "Now's your time," cried Blueskin, struggling desperately with his assailants and inflicting severe cuts with his knife.
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