"I never told anybody," she went on. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. She reflected before answering. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. Even now I do not understand. Some have no males. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Mr. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. That is my way, my dear. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out.
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