After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. His hands came up, his face broke apart. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned.
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