Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. "I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. His body had been maimed many times. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. "Yes, yes," replied Edgeworth Bess. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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