She crushed the letter in her hand. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. But it is no longer necessary.
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