McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. ” “But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—You can’t—at first. You called yourself a murderess. She could not bear the shame of it. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown.
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