“It’s the spring,” he said. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. So long as he lived, Spurlock knew that in fancy he would be reconstructing that scene between himself and Ruth's father. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. The plank hung over his head. “What are your objections?” she said.
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