To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. The boat was set free, and the men resumed their seats. Lost from all protection, all her family dead—as are mine. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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