stare. She felt surges of longing escape every corner of her flesh. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. “A confusion of motives—that’s what I am!. “Well?” “I don’t care a rap for all these things. If you choose, you can see him put on board the Zeeslang yourself, Sir Rowland. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark.
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