The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. My late husband, I mean. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.
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