Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. Sir John hesitated, and then continued. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. How much Mary knew is a mystery.
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