" Ruth stood with drawn brows; she was trying to recall. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. All at once she realised that Kimble had halted, leaning heavily against the wall.
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