The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. She was finally dead, going to Hell. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. You’re a lady. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs.
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