‘Wait for me. She stopped eating. He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot.
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