From then on he was Ruth's dog. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. Martha had been more to her than that. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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