As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. "I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. She lied. ” They hesitated. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. All we have to apprehend is a rescue. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. She answered him almost coldly.
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