Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. "Ninny! What did we know about Father, except when he was around the house? But where is the girl? She said something about having tea with us. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The lonely widows of robber barons found him irresistible and he was the guest of many a fine table. The evenings were dulcet and soft. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth.
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