"She is in his power, and I am here, chained hand and foot, unable to assist her. Your life is like a funeral March. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. The hansom drove off.
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