It was time to leave America. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. It was years before your time. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. That wasn’t even the worst thing. He thanked God for this talent of his.
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