Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery. I'll tell you what. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over.
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