He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. He halted and put out a hand to stop Hilary. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. But they would not be denied.
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