Here he obtained some breakfast, and mounting the hill turned off into the fields on the right. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. I’m a soldier, you see. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. “John’s here. Believe me, Anna.
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