" That was true, thought Spurlock. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. She pointed suddenly at the portrait.
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