She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me. I’m a female thing at bottom.
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