He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. “What a hypocrite you are. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. Irregularly, in a quite inglorious and unromantic way, you know, I am a vicious man.
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