Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. There were three exit doors. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am.
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