“Oh, Lucy. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. Ruth returned to the table. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. ’ So that was it.
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