“Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. So, forthwith, without any preliminaries beyond introductions, he began the ceremony; and shortly Ruth Enschede became Ruth Spurlock, for better or for worse.
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