As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. Henceforth Ruth would closely observe her fellow women and note the hang of their skirts. But I must—I ought—” “I MUST talk about this. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs.
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