"You should be glad to be made an honest woman. How Jack Sheppard got rid of his Irons. There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply.
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