Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of his dues. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs.
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