‘It did not seem to me that it was so. His suspicions at first fell upon you. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then.
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