For the sort of love-making you think about. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. He had heard nothing. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. That's why I'm so anxious to get her to a haven.
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