‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. I bear the marks of some of them about me still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. She interrupted. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. .
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