” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. She did this to please him. Suddenly he felt Ruth swing violently away from him, and he wheeled to learn the cause. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “There’s endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn’t,” he said. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade.
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