"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. You know how stubborn they get. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself.
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