And I want you for myself—for my wife. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. "My name is Ruth Enschede. What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly.
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