Spurlock. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. There was a long silence between them. His father spoke for him. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill.
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