Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. ‘Do not say such things, you—you imbecile. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. “Anna!” she repeated. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face.
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