“It’s precious unromantic. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his terror, which is a phase of fascination. “I must explain to her. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Ruth shivered; she was cold.
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