As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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