‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. Ruth came to him directly. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. Wood, softening her asperity.
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