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. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. Mr. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. .
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