"By all means," rejoined Quilt. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. When I've placed another skull and another halter beside them, I shall be contented.
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