His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again. "By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. She felt this was the sensible way out of this oddly sinister situation. ‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. Jack was not half your age when he died.
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