The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “Here goes,” he said. “You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. "And now, farewell, Mr. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that.
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