But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. . Wood. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. There never is much left for me. ’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant.
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