Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish.
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