She's plenty clean below. Brown or Jones, I dare say. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. She took his hand in hers. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. Come along home, Ruth. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.
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