"You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes. They must have a key. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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