Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. She had agonized over it for weeks. By and by he ventured to peer into this window.
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