She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. ” “Then why,” Anna asked quietly, “do you run away? It is not like you. 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. It was for ever. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes.
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