“Please let me drive you home. Wood scarcely knew where he was. She entered and approached the bunk. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years.
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