He did not love Ruth. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. Rummage, my boy, do. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. It shall be the bludgeon.
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