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 to her. He's still my Philip." There was in the knowledge a sense of passionate triumph and joy, which wiped out all else—her doubts about Moses Slade, her worry over Philip's future, even the sudden, cold terror that gripped her as she felt the fever stealing' back into his thin, transparent hand. He didn't belong to Naomi. Why, he almost hated her. He was still her boy. . . . And she had defeated Naomi.

In the darkness the tears dampened the pillow. God had not, after all, forsaken her.