" Spurlock lowered his voice. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. Wood's. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. He handed Ruth a letter. She ignored his question. “I know. A nod was exchanged. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt. Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. .
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