He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ‘That’s right. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. ’ She gave him a straight look.
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