He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. And where was that devil? Had the soldiers found him? She could not think he had escaped, for she had only just made it into the passage as they entered the library. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder.
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