Certainly not a gentlewoman. His grip twisted her wrist. ’ ‘You mean I need not have said it? Damnation. “Limp,” he answered. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Her thoughts took words for themselves. His father spoke for him. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say.
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