He cherished her. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger.
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