Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. Montague Hill. He looked at her guiltily. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. She almost sprang to her feet. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. She chose to hold her nose. But tell her this, too.
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