This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. “My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. "I don't know. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. And I am grateful to you. "The door's open, and the room empty.
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