This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Wood obeyed. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. She had not seen him in two and a half centuries.
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