"Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. " And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it. ’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. He shall have the estates. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.
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