"Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. E. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals.
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