She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. Wood,—"he'll never mend. ” “A sort of history,” said Mr. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. ” She knelt upon the floor of her cell and clasped her hands, and remained for a long time in silence. It was still so dark, that nothing could be distinguished except the heavy masses of timber by which the premises were surrounded; but as they advanced, lights were visible in some of the windows. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. .
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