"Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. Or perhaps my father once. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. It’s no half reform either. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. "What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently.
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