It began as a joke. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. " Ruth repeated the word, not in the effect of a query, but ruminantly.
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