He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. .
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