" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. And severely hurt that pig, which was a very good thing. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast.
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