He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. "Miss Thornhill's a charming girl. ” “You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours.
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