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She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. There are way-stations—even terminals. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. Mr.
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