“Why should one pretend?” she whispered. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge. "By desire of his Majesty," said the jailer, consequentially. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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