[SPAM] Htful histories--yet there was a kind of fairness over all her ruins. "I

Hen I awakened in the middle of the afternoon he was sitting up against
four hot-water bottles, letting her call him "Brother Billy." That
sounds scandalous, but listening from where I lay on the sofa in the
front room I could tell that they were having a duel of spirits, and
that she was taking liberties with William's theology that must have
made his guardian angel pale. He wore his red flannel nightshirt, had a
quilt folded around his legs and one of Benson's Commentaries open upon
his knees. His hair was bristling in fine style, and his long beard lay
like a stole upon his breast. His hands were resting on the arms of his
chair, and he was regarding Sal, who sat in the opposite corner openly
dipping snuff, with a kind of fascinated disapproval. "The kind of faith
you have in God don't do Him jestice," she was saying. "It's sorter
infernal--it's so mean and partial. Your God ain't nothing but a
Paradise capitalist and aristocrat--the sort of one that fixes up a
flower garden for Him and jest His saints to set in the middle of and
sing and harp on their harps, while a right smart chance of the best
folks sneak and shuffle around in the outer darkness forever because,
like me, they had no chance to be good, and so went wrong before they
knowed where they were going. Sometimes these last ye

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