He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. But after that it was easy. Not like my father. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. . She recoiled. " "A friend is not so soon gained as lost," replied Wood; "but how has the prediction been fulfilled, Joan, eh?" "I thought you would have guessed, Sir," replied the widow, timidly.
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