I hadn’t heard of him before the trial. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air.
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