He scratched his upper lip reflectively. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. To reach the door they had to pass the end of the table, and behind the chair where Mr. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. Wood turned to look at him. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail.
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