“I do,” he answered. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked.
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