Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. “Something. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. We're lost. For heaven’s sake, give him some Madeira or something, Gerald! Anything to calm him down. Wild's busy.
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