There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. “Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. “But I am your husband,” he said. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again.
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