Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. He went more easily this time. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image.
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