I am shockingly poor. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. And also she didn’t like them. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested.
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