She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. "How?" cried her brother, starting. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through.
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