Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It was the moment for smiles. “Never mind me. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. Sit down, I command you. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. Then, presto! What a dreary lot they are when the revellers lay aside the motley! Ruth had come from a far South Sea isle. Some have no males. I had no right to marry you.
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