But don’t think your heroic milice will save you. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. 195 < 24 > A CITY IN GREECE, 589 B. Ruth out of the picture, he wouldn't have concerned himself so eagerly in regard to Spurlock's departure.
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