He handed Ruth a letter. There he sat as before, with the heavy fetters on his limbs, and beside him sat his three companions, who had since expiated their offences on the gibbet. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. There was one letter. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. Her mind went on generalizing. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. Jackson, to the swig.
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