Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. "Stop him!" shouted Jonathan from the stair-head, "stop him! It's Jack Sheppard!" "Give way!" cried Jack fiercely. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. Wild's figure. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. I hung around Harvard a little when you were there.
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