" "Do not speak of it," rejoined Thames, with a look of horror. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales.
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