He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. “Yes. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Miss Charvill. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know.
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