A man’s children nowadays are not his own. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ‘She wants you. “I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. He'll mend, I hope. Even the stars were strangers. Yes—as he would have liked. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband.
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