The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. McClintock sent his yacht over for us this morning. He was silent. However, that’s over and done with. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. Taber? There is a possibility.
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