My only love is for my poor lost son. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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