Just because she was sorry for that young fool! "Uh-huh," he repeated, rising and bowing as he passed Ruth's table. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me.
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