It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. They had both been unsuccessful. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "Is it poison?" she asked. No, never mind about thanking me. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. ‘Tell me what you know of Miss Charvill?’ he ordered severely.
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