Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Presently repellance grew under the frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day.
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