He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She is English, and apparently in some distress. She was frightfully hungry. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in.
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