The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. There was nothing on the Tablets of Moses that forebade Spurlock marrying Ruth; there were no previous contracts. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Earles,” she exclaimed.
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