Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. " And he raised his arm with the intention of executing his purpose, when a ball from Jack's pistol passed through the back of his hand, shattering the limb. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit.
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