Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. I shan't let you off a farthing. ‘If you’ll have the goodness, missie, to move yourself out of the way,’ he said aggrievedly, ‘and let us at him, we might have a chance of doing just that. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Nobody could possibly find him now. "Yes … but dreadfully tired.
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