Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. . I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out.
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