The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. He lost control of the machine. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression. She entered the kitchen. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden.
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