It reverberated in the silence. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Which were perfectly true, as Gerald was aware. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation.
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