You are too credulous. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. It did so well that they sold it in the nineties. We’ll run away together, we’ll elope. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands.
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