Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. ‘I feared as much. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag.
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