"Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather.
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