So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. She should leave sooner, but she just could not bear missing the event. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Everything was blurred. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. " "I'd never set eyes on you again. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene.
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