She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never know it!" "I'll be getting along.
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