"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. His arms were naturally big and his chest was covered with a smattering of soft hairs. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. Cast off this weakness.
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