How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. I was—I was a corespondent. “Well?” she said. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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