The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. “Anna!” she repeated. " And he tossed it carelessly into the bottom of the boat. She still could not muster the strength to leave. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse.
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