Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most satisfactory lucidity and completeness. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. He had not considered this aspect of the business.
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