Anna raised her eyes. And Pottiswick, of course. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize.
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