” She said. " When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. " "Help! help!" shrieked Mrs. ” “It was a mistake,” she faltered. . She had underestimated his animal ability to sense weakness. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man.
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