" CHAPTER XIII. One who—who—tres. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. She moved a little nearer to him. He still watched her and questioned her. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud.
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