Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. He kissed her at the door. ‘Let her go. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. But he knew. He filled his pipe slowly. ‘C’est ridicule.
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