No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. “Mary Lucia. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. “Let’s go home. Rhea commanded her. ‘Of course. The worst was over now.
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