Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window.
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