He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. Without preamble, in a voice of extreme exasperation, he demanded, ‘Now what the devil’s to do? What in God’s name do you mean by sending Gerald such a ridiculous letter? Never read anything half as crazy. Anybody in pain had only to call to him. ” “No, mine. She recoiled.
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