He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. " "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected.
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