He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. "You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. Look at these walls.
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