As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. “Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her.
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