Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. "Be still, and you'll receive no injury," returned Jackson.
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