Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. Annabel, come to the door with me,” she added a little abruptly. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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