A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. “I’m not a good woman. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water.
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