The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. He was caked with dried muck. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. She stood without motion and without strength. “Okay, Mom. ” “You’ll never pay me.
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