He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She dumped him because she claimed she didn’t want him to go any farther. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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