This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. There was nothing on the Tablets of Moses that forebade Spurlock marrying Ruth; there were no previous contracts. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid.
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