The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. He would never recognize me now. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. "Ruth?" he called. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time.
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