Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. Behind the illustrious personages just described marched a troop of stalwart fellows, with white badges in their hats, quarterstaves, oaken cudgels, and links in their hands. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop.
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