He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment.
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