The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat up hugging and rocking her body in delight. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. . ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr. Some of my schemes are already in hand.
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