He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Come and help me pack. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. Humph. “Why don’t you?” “Well, it might mean rather a row. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers.
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