"Not as I loved mine. ” “Excellent,” Sir John declared. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. I hate what I am. I don't believe he is much past forty.
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