I always say that it’s poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. Hill lost a little of his truculency. Come along home, Ruth.
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