The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. ‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. The day is already half over.
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