Much to her annoyance, therefore, Winifred was left alone with the woollendraper, who following up a maxim of his own, "that nothing was gained by too much bashfulness," determined to profit by the opportunity. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. We remember it. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did.
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