Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. Profligate women are never reclaimed. She took his hand in hers. The delight of the turnkeys was beyond all bounds; but poor Mrs. Sir John stood upon the threshold. ” He fumed. "What is your name?" "Ruth.
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