Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice.
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