He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ’ ‘Let’s. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. ” Miss Stanley rose and regarded Ann Veronica fixedly. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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