"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. All her pride raged at me. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. The old fool’s been working on you through your sister to keep off the stage. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. She felt the thrill race through her body. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. Come along home, Ruth. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed.
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