Her Father's House

( 9 )

Overview

Beloved storyteller Belva Plain understands the rich tapestry of the human heart like no other. Her many dazzling New York Times bestsellers probe the shifting bonds of marriage and family with insight, compassion, and uncommon grace. And her new novel is no exception. A tale of fathers and daughters, lovers and families, acts of love and acts of betrayal, Her Father’s House is Belva Plain’s most powerful and unforgettable novel yet.

It is the spring of 1968 when Donald Wolfe, a...

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Overview

Beloved storyteller Belva Plain understands the rich tapestry of the human heart like no other. Her many dazzling New York Times bestsellers probe the shifting bonds of marriage and family with insight, compassion, and uncommon grace. And her new novel is no exception. A tale of fathers and daughters, lovers and families, acts of love and acts of betrayal, Her Father’s House is Belva Plain’s most powerful and unforgettable novel yet.

It is the spring of 1968 when Donald Wolfe, a young graduate of a midwestern law school, arrives in New York. Filled with ambition and idealism, he is dazzled not only by the big city but by the vivacious, restless Lillian, whom he marries in the heat of infatuation.

Surely theirs is no marriage made in heaven, but they have a child, Tina, and she is the love of Donald’s heart. For her he would give up everything—his home, his distinguished career, and his freedom. When his flawed marriage begins to fail, a choice must be made. Shall he consider a step that would force him into flight and a life of hiding?

From her earliest years, Tina is exceptional, a brilliant student and a joyous, loving spirit. At the university she falls in love with Gilbert, who graduates from law school just as she is about to enter medical school. Together they go to New York, where she learns the truth about her family’s past, a truth that must change her regard for the father who has protected and cherished her. When a terrible lie has been told out of love, can it be forgiven?

With courage and compassion, Belva Plain paints a moving portrait of the choices that shape the course of our lives, the secrets that haunt us, and the love that helps us heal and move on. It is a work of riveting storytelling and rare emotional power by one of the most gifted novelists of our time.

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Editorial Reviews

Susan Tekulve
With her latest novel, Plain delivers the flowing plot and neatly resolved conflicts her fans will expect, but the real strength of the book is that she doesn't make tidy moral distinctions between her villain and hero. Young Donald Wolfe is steadily building a career with a prestigious New York law firm when he meets Lillian, a glamorous beauty with a mysterious past. Soon after they marry, Donald discovers that Lillian is an unfaithful social climber and that he is merely her stepping stone to greater riches and social prestige. After a brief, miserable marriage, Lillian divorces him while carrying his child. Soon after, Donald kidnaps his daughter, assumes a false identity, flees New York and lands on a farm in the Georgia foothills. In this pastoral setting, he creates a wholesome and respectable life for himself and his daughter. It isn't until the child is nearly twenty that she discovers the truth about her father's house, and their stable existence is threatened. Plain's exploration of "good" characters who tell desperate lies and "bad" characters who conduct genuine acts of charity will keep the reader pleasantly guessing.
Publishers Weekly
Usually a crowd-pleaser, Plain (Looking Back, etc.) sleepwalks through her latest novel, in which old-fashioned style clashes uncomfortably with contemporary content. Donald Wolfe, a 25-year-old North Dakota native, comes to New York City in 1968 to practice law; five years later, he meets and falls for the captivating Lillian Morris. Marrying in haste, he repents big time when Lillian reveals herself to be disturbingly erratic. After she becomes pregnant, the two divorce, but when Donald judges his daughter, Bettina, to be neglected, he kidnaps her. Taking to the road, he invents a new past for himself and adopts the name Jim, renaming his daughter Laura. Many years later, the truth is revealed and Jim stands trial for kidnapping. Will Laura, now a young woman, be able to forgive her father his deception, which he claims was for her own good? An unbelievably na ve attitude on the part of young Donald and creakingly stilted dialogue all around make it difficult to suspend disbelief; meanwhile, the dated language will have readers expecting descriptions of porkpie hats. Preachy double standards regarding parenting will be unappreciated by modern readers, and there are a few glaring anachronisms (music CDs in the '70s?). When Donald/Jim, sanctimonious from start to finish, asserts late in the novel that "Running away is never the answer," readers will rightly wonder whether this man has been paying attention to his own life story. More importantly, has the author? A pass, even for completists. National advertising. (Aug. 6) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Is it kidnapping when a father steals his cherished daughter away from a destructive and unstable mother? Plain's heroine, now a grown woman, must decide for herself. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A divorced father, fearing the influence of his ruthlessly social-climbing ex, kidnaps his baby daughter and heads to the hills-until his past and the police catch up. Brilliant lawyer Donald Wolf is a straight-arrow kind of guy and a romantic soul who wants to marry and have kids. An associate in a leading New York firm, he thinks that in Lillian, a legal secretary who loves art, he's met the perfect woman. While Lillian is curiously reticent about her family and past, Donald is too smitten to ask questions. Nor is he particularly curious when Mr. Buzley, her boss, gives them a lavish wedding gift. Once married, Lillian spends money freely and befriends the rich couple who live in the penthouse. Next she's dragging Donald to glamorous parties and complaining they don't have enough money. When she gets pregnant, they decide to take a trip to Italy, where Lillian studied art and where Donald, already tired of Lillian's greedy ways, learns more about her past-not good-and asks for a divorce. Lillian gives birth to daughter Bettina, and, now married to Mr. Buzley, lives in style. But soon Donald, who sees Bettina regularly in the park with her nanny, learns that Lillian is cheating on Buzley. An accident involving Bettina convinces Donald that life with Lillian would be bad for her, and he so kidnaps the two-year-old, takes a false name, and heads for a small hill-town in Georgia, where years pass, he becomes a respected citizen, and makes himself helpful to ailing farmer Clarence Benson, his pretty wife Kate, and their young son Rick. Aware that the police are looking for him, Donald never leaves town, but his past catches up with him when he goes to Bettina's college graduation. His lifeunravels as lies and secrets come to light-but this is Belva Plain (Looking Back, 2001, etc.), and happiness lies ahead. Plain reading: no troubling shadings to complicate or disturb.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440235804
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 12/2/2003
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 416
  • Sales rank: 980,092
  • Product dimensions: 4.20 (w) x 6.85 (h) x 1.10 (d)

Meet the Author

Belva  Plain

Belva Plain captured readers' hearts with her first novel, Evergreen, which Delacorte published more than 30 years ago. It topped the New York Times best-seller list for 41 weeks and aired as an NBC-TV miniseries. In total, more than 20 of her books have been New York Times best sellers.

Before becoming a novelist,  Belva Plain wrote short stories for many major magazines, but taking care of a husband and three children did not give her the time to concentrate on the novel she had always wanted to write. When she looked back and said she didn't have the time, she felt as though she had been making excuses. In retrospect, she said, "I didn't make the time." But, she reminded us, during the era that she was raising her family, women were supposed to concentrate only on their children. Today 30 million copies of her books are in print.

A Barnard College graduate who majored in history,  Belva Plain enjoyed a wonderful marriage of more than 40 years to Irving Plain, an ophthalmologist. Widowed for more than 25 years, Ms. Plain continued to reside in New Jersey, where she and her husband had raised their family and which was still home to her nearby children and grandchildren until her death in October 2010.

Biography

Belva Plain captured readers' hearts with her first novel, Evergreen (1978), published when the author was a grandmother. It topped The New York Times bestseller list for 41 weeks and aired as an NBC-TV miniseries in 1985. In all, twenty of her novels appeared on The New York Times best-seller list.

Before she became a novelist, Belva Plain wrote short stories for many major magazines (she sold her first story to Cosmopolitan), but taking care of a husband and three children did not give her the time to concentrate on the novel she always wanted to write. In retrospect, she said, "I didn't make the time." Now, with well over 25 million copies of her books in print, translated into 22 languages, her fans can be grateful she demonstrated a better-late-than-never attitude.

A Barnard College graduate who majored in history, Belva Plain enjoyed a wonderful marriage of more than 40 years to Irving Plain, an ophthalmologist, who died in 1982. She lived most of her life in New Jersey where she and her husband raised their family. Belva Plain died at her home in October 2010. She was 95.

Author biography courtesy of Random House, Inc.

Good To Know

Plain's first short story was published in Cosmopolitan magazine when she was twenty-five; her first novel was published nearly forty years later.

When she wasn't writing, Plain enjoyed opera, ballet, nature, history, dogs, and reading.

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    1. Date of Birth:
      October 9, 1915
    2. Place of Birth:
      New York, New York
    1. Date of Death:
      October 12, 2010
    2. Place of Death:
      Short Hills, New Jersey
    1. Education:
      B.A., Barnard College

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

1968

His name was Donald Wolfe, Donald J., for James, and he was twenty-five years old when he joined the stream of eager youth that from every corner of the country, every year, pours into the churning human sea called New York. If it is ever possible, or even makes any sense to say that someone's geographic origin can be visible on his person, then it made sense to say that Donald looked like just the man to have come from healthy small-town or farming people in some cold place like North Dakota—which is exactly where he had come from.

He was tall, brown-haired, and large-boned; his brown eyes were thoughtful and calm. On the streets of New York during those first months, he walked with slow deliberation through the impatient crowd, taking his time to estimate the height of a building or pausing to wonder at the heaped-up splendors in the shop windows. Untempted, he merely wandered.

Once only was he tempted. In a bookstore's window lay the Writings of Thomas Jefferson, bound in dark red leather. It was expensive, yet the price did not faze him too much, for he hoped to build a library and he also felt that he owed himself one treat, so he bought it.

Never in his life had he had so much money at his command. Having graduated second in his class at law school, he had been hired as an associate in the New York office of an international law firm. Although others in the firm complained that the city, with its high rents, expensive restaurants and entertainments, left them beggared, he, because he did not go to expensive restaurants and always bought standing room or the cheapest seats at theaters, felt rich. His clean, two-room apartment on the fifth floor of a nineteenth century walk-up building, with an interesting view of the lively street, was satisfying to him.

Sometimes in window glass he would catch a reflection of himself on his way to work, wearing his correct dark suit with his briefcase at his side.

"I can't believe what's happened to me," he would cry out to himself, and then be amused at his own simplemindedness. Who do you think you are, anyway, Donald Wolfe? Why, there are dozens of young men just like you in any one of these towering buildings along the avenue.

Yet they were not all quite like him. Senior partners were surely known to be sparing of praise; still, before the year had passed, he had already received a good deal of it. One of the seniors, a punctilious, middle-aged man whom a few of the younger people in the office had secretly labeled "typically white shoe," took a liking to him. But even if Augustus Pratt had not taken that liking, Donald never would have scoffed at "white shoe"; to begin with, he was not exactly sure what it meant, but if it did mean what he thought—a certain old-fashioned, formal courtesy—he would have found no fault with that.

One evening at the conclusion of Aida, Donald came upon Mr. Pratt in the lobby of the opera house. He was accompanied by a woman, obviously his wife, with their three half-grown children.

"Why hello, Donald. I never knew you cared about opera."

"I do, although I still don't know much about it."

"It's never too late and seldom too early to learn. If I'd known you were here," he said as they walked out together, "we could have had some refreshments. Where were you sitting?"

"On top. As high as you can go."

"Oh. It was worth it, I'm sure, in spite of the seat."

"Yes, sir, it was."

"Well, see you in the morning. Good night, Donald."

More than once when in a later time he reflected on the chain of events that had moved him through the years, Donald wondered how differently things might have turned out if he had not met Augustus Pratt that night at the opera.

Was it the fact that I shared his tastes that impressed him enough to present me with two good seats for the rest of the season? Had that led to those informal conversations which, in their turn, had led to more swift assignments and promotions, and that, in a roundabout way had led in the end to Lillian, to marriage, and the deadly ruin that came after it?

Pratt had grown up in a small town in northern Maine. His father, like Donald's late mother, had been a teacher. He too had left for law school, borrowed and worked his way through it, and never returned to the small town. It was this familiar background that made Donald feel particularly comfortable in his presence.

"Yes," Pratt said in one of those conversations, "Dakota sounds much like Maine. A hot July and August, then a long winter. My brothers and I worked all day in the potato fields. We worked so late sometimes that our mother brought our dinner to us in a pail. You, too, I suppose?"

"Except that I had no brothers or sisters, either. Mom had a summer job when school was out. When I got back from the farm where I worked, I'd make supper. If she got home first, she'd make it."

"You don't mention your father. Or am I intruding with the question?"

"Not at all. He died in France in 1944. I was a year old."

"To have a son, and never see him grow up," Pratt murmured, then gave Donald a penetrating look.

"You would have pleased him, Donald. Our profession, despite the abuses of some lawyers, still demands the highest honor and trust. You are going to be an honored name within it."

Donald was to remember another day, two years later.

"How would you like to go with me to Singapore next month? There's a bank matter there that's come to life again. We'd thought it was nicely settled, but it isn't."

"Like it, Mr. Pratt? Until I came to New York, I'd never been farther than the state capital. Oh yes, I'd like it!"

Pratt had smiled. Donald never forgot that smile, a little pleased, a little amused, and even perhaps a little bit—well, fatherly.

"You'll see a lot more than Singapore in your time, Donald."

There was so much that he needed to see, and do, and learn! The world was a thousand times larger and fuller than he could have imagined. In the courtroom as part of a team accompanying a senior partner, he saw the human tragedy and the human comedy as he had never seen them. The variety of people! The poverty and the riches! The astonishing evil and the innocence! And above it all was the majestic quest for justice.

At his desk he sat and studied the postmarks on foreign correspondence. The very names on them lured him. London and Paris evoked grand boulevards; Surinam, Bombay, or Malaysia evoked wet heat, dim rubber forests, or red-and-gold bazaars. The firm's clients had profits, losses, and myriad problems all over the world. Here were complicated puzzles with much at stake—not to mention his own job if he were to err in a report to his superiors. . .

The bright years rolled one into the other. In the fifth year, he was approaching the time when a young lawyer either "makes partner" or knows that he never will.

"I can't talk about it yet, but I assume you have a pretty good idea," said Augustus Pratt, and changed the subject. "Do you ever think of marrying?"

Donald was startled. They were five miles above the Atlantic, flying home. And they had just been talking about the Federal Reserve. Anyway, the question was more personal than one would generally expect from Mr. Pratt.

"No," he said, stumbling over his reply. "I'm in no hurry."

"Well, you've been with us going on six years. And you haven't met anyone? I thought maybe that English girl you always see when we're in London. She seemed quite lovely that time I met her."

"You liked her," Donald said mischievously, "because she looks like Mrs. Pratt."

"Ah yes, maybe she does, a little. We'll be married twenty years next month." A soft expression crossed Pratt's face. It was remarkable to see that softness appear on features usually so firm as to have been carved. "Yes, yes, Donald, a sound, loving marriage is a man's blessing. Someplace right now there's a young woman who is going to give you great joy in life. And let me add that she will be one lucky woman."

"Well, we'll see," said Donald, wanting to end the subject. "But up till now, I haven't ever felt about anyone that I'd want to spend the rest of my life with her. Without that I certainly wouldn't marry her."

Chapter 2

Scattered among New York's stone towers are a number of small, green oases, with seats in the shade or in the sun, depending on one's choice. Throughout the day, people come to them to read or eat a sandwich lunch, or simply to sit.

About half-past four on a warm afternoon late in April, Donald sat down in one of these oases and opened the newspaper. He was unusually tired; he had been in the office until midnight the night before and had then spent the greater part of the day in court. Debating within himself whether he ought to go back to the office or whether, it being Friday, he could afford to go straight home, take off his shoes, and stretch out, he put the paper down and shut his eyes against the lowering sun. His mood was mingled; there was the satisfaction that came of having skillfully presented a convincing argument before the court; also there was the pity that he could not help but feel for the poor guilty devil who by now must be sitting in jail, quivering as he waited the term of his punishment.

A bright, girlish voice woke him from his thoughts. "Your briefcase is about to fall and spill out all your papers."

So it was. He had placed it carelessly on the very edge of his knees. Now, in haste, he retrieved it and mumbled his thanks.

"Very nice of you. I should have known better."

Directly in his line of vision sat the owner of the voice, the owner also of two very large and very blue eyes. He smiled appropriately, returned to his newspaper, and read a column. When he looked up as he turned the page, there she was again, a smart young woman wearing black and white; her skin was also very white against her black, upswept hair. About twenty-five, he guessed, and went back to the newspaper.

The next time he looked, she was eating an orange. She had placed it upon a magazine, and with a tiny knife—mother-of-pearl handle, he thought—was cutting it into sections. These she ate with unusual delicacy, and with the same delicacy, having wrapped the peel in a paper napkin, dropped it into the trash can at the rear of the little park.

Elegance. The word flashed into his head as he watched her. She was small, but not undersized. She was erect and graceful, as if she were dancing. When she sat down, her ankles were crossed so that her pretty shoes hugged each other.

He looked away, but not before he had caught her glance, which then made it necessary to say something.

"I certainly appreciate your noticing my briefcase. The last thing I need is to have any of these papers blow away."

"Legal documents, oh yes. One of the people in my firm lost some last week in the subway, and it was pretty awful."

"Your firm? You're a lawyer?"

"Heavens, no. Just a secretary, a legal secretary to Mr. Buzley. Buzley of Anaheim, Roman and Roman."

"You shouldn't say 'just' a secretary. We could hardly work without secretaries."

"Well, true enough. By the way, I'm Lillian Morris."

"Donald Wolfe. I'm with Orton and Pratt."

She smiled. "A far cry from Mr. Buzley. Pop singers and movie stars, versus international strategies. But Mr. Buzley's very nice to me, and I shouldn't say that, should I?"

"No, you shouldn't. But I won't quote you."

She laughed. Her laugh was a real one, not the affected giggle he so often heard. There was something about her that delighted him. He suddenly had the feeling that in another minute she would get up and leave. Surely there must be something he could say to detain her.

"It feels like an early spring. I mean, it will be if this keeps up," he said, and was at once ashamed of his dull remark.

"Yes, it does," she agreed.

For the life of him, he could think of nothing more to say. But then when she actually did stand up, opening her mouth perhaps to bid good-bye, he thought of something.

"I'm walking east. Is that your way, too?"

When she replied that it was, he berated himself for his stupidity. What if she had said west? How then would he have been able to accompany her?

They crossed Park Avenue. "I always wondered," said Lillian, "What those apartments are like inside. The doorways with the awnings and the doormen look so impressive. I've heard that some apartments have twelve or fifteen rooms, or even more."

Augustus Pratt's apartment had fourteen rooms. Donald could have told her about the mahogany library there, or the long dining table under the brilliant chandelier. But the subject did not seem important enough to take his mind from the thought that on Lexington Avenue, only a few steps away, there was a little place with tables on the sidewalk and wonderful pizza, or—

"Are you by any chance hungry?" he inquired.

"Yes, to tell the truth, I've only had breakfast this morning and that orange just now."

"How about keeping me company? I'm starved."

"I would love it."

Having had a large lunch with a group of lawyers between court sessions, he was hardly hungry. But at the table on the sidewalk, he managed to eat a fair-sized piece of an excellent pizza. The ordering of food, the discussion of choices, and the comparisons among various recipes and restaurants, followed by a brief selection of a sorbet relieved him of the need to make good conversation. He did not remember ever, before now, having struggled to "make" conversation! Words had always come easily to him. Was a lawyer not, after all, a wordsmith?

Lillian was making comments on the passing scene: an unfamiliar foreign car, a woman wearing a fashionable suit, and a man leading a pair of handsome standard poodles. She spoke vivaciously, but not too much so; hearing her, he only half heard; he was observing her instead.

She made small, expressive gestures with her hands. He disliked women of whom he often thought that if their hands were ever tied, they would be unable to talk. But now he watched those hands, the long fingers and the pale, oval nails. Raising his eyes, he saw a necklace of small pearls lying between the rise of round breasts under a fine white blouse. He saw a firm chin and full lips that, for some odd reason, recalled the taste of warm raspberries. The nose was a trifle too short. The cheekbones were perhaps too high, although it was said, was it not, that high cheekbones were to be desired? So then they were not too high! And the eyes, lake blue, lake deep! And the dark, thick hair piled high, the crown on a proud, proud head.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 9 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 9 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 30, 2013

    Starlight

    Throws daggers at the wall and smiles as she hears the dull 'thunk' as they hit their target.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 18, 2007

    Horrible

    The plot was far-fetched to say the least. The dialoge was totally unbelievable and dated (in the late 1980's she refers to flourescent lights as 'electric lights'). This is perhaps the worst book I have ever read. I could not have cared less what happened to the characters and in the end I was just thankful it was over.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2005

    Plot-driven, not character-driven

    The story flew by so fast, I did not have time to get to know the characters because with every turn of the page, a year or so had passed. Ms. Plain had enough material for a series with all she packed into this fast little read. Too many stereotypes: Maria, the nanny (honestly, not all Mexican women are named Maria and not all of them can't speak English very well) and Lillian (not all socialites do the whole charity bit). It was all more like a Harlequin romance (thankfully, without all the explicit sex scenes). The ending was very weak and not believable at all. I am a freelance writer and I can tell you, there was entirely too much telling in this book and not enough showing and there was not one sentence in the entire novel that is worth quoting, that is either beautiful or profound. I feel about this book like I felt about 'The Thorn Birds' by Colleen McCullough. I did not care any more about the characters at the end of the book than I did at the beginning. At least I can say I found Donald and Kate very likeable, though I hardly knew them. Laura seemed to have no personality. It is amazing what sells anymore. Take Nicholas Sparks. The Notebook and A Walk To Remember were good reads, not great literature by any means, but they were very character-driven novels (even if the author's credibilty was greatly reduced when he started talking about Baptists baptizing babies--that is Catholicism). His books have been getting worse and worse. Nights in Rodanthe was bad, but I couldn't even get through The Wedding. He just seems to be using his name, notariety and boyish good looks to sell books. But, what can I say? As long as people keep buying them, authors like Nicholas Sparks will keep turing out third-rate work.

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Great drama

    In 1968 Rising New York attorney Donald Wolfe meets, dates, and marries Lillian Morris. However, happily ever after fails to materialize and they quickly part but not before she becomes pregnant. Lillian remarries and Donald sees their child Bettina once a week. During his visits Tina¿s nanny accompanies the little girl. The nanny informs Donald that Lillian ignores their daughter while planning to carry her with her as excess baggage when she visits her latest lover. Unable to sit on the sidelines, Donald abducts his beloved Tina and vanishes with her. <P>Years later Tina is getting married. She travels to New York where she soon learns more about her matriarchal background. Tina is pulled in two directions, as she knows her father lied about her past, but risked all to provide her a safe nurturing environment. <P>HER FATHER¿S HOUSE is a complex cerebral father-daughter relationship tale. The story line forces the reader to ponder how far does one go to protect a loved one including hiding the truth from them? That question leads to other philosophical issues such as does the means (hiding the truth and the abduction though risking everything) justify the end (an adjusted adult), when do you make that decision, and how do you knows its right in a world of multi-hued grays? Belva Plain leaves her fans to cogitate on this deep novel and what brilliant rabbit will she pull out of her magic word processor next. <P>Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 18, 2002

    She Understands the Human Heart!

    I have discovered a new category of writers whose work I am falling in love with: writers who understand the human heart and capture it with simplicity. I first found Kirk Martin through Shade of the Maple, absolutely extraordinary, now Belva Plain. She writes with rare emotional power in this intriguing, beautiful and sometimes haunting novel. Both novels are about choices, and the power they have in our lives. Highly recommended!

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    Posted June 6, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 3, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 28, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 30, 2012

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