Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. . The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. No! That was impossible. Very doubtful.
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