\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. He had an objective now. Melusine got to her feet and, tucking her shoulder under his arm on the uninjured side, put her arm about him to hold his waist, and thus contrived to take most of his weight. "A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. Then go and fetch this daughter of yourn. ’ At last. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. Get it off your soul. She pushed.
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