" Spurlock wondered if something hadn't suddenly gone awry in his head. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. It was free of leering men, unthinkable punishments, and human evil. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. Enschede, to have starved his heart as well as Ruth's because, having laid a curse, he knew not how to turn aside from it! How easily he might have forgotten the unworthy mother in the love of the child! And this day to hear her voice lifted in a quality of anathema.
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