He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Gosse twisted his body to avoid another thrust, and the heavy candlesticks fell, rolling with a noise like thunder, and falling with a thud to the floor. Here was one that subtly mocked her. A curious silence ensued. The Night-Cellar XVIII. I told you no good would come of it.
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