It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Shot him, do you hear?” “Good God!” he exclaimed, looking at her curiously. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. You ought to have had better advice two years ago. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another.
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