This is my friend, Mr. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. The militia offered little in the way of relief. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies.
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