“We won’t. She had nothing to say for herself. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. There was still in his heart that fierce anger which demands physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in all phases. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. He was caressing an idea. A moment afterwards, the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone. He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off.
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