The well of tears in her eyes was dry. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. The shouts of indignation—the frightful yells now raised baffle description. ‘And housebreaking,’ added Gerald calmly. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too.
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