He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. " Sheppard said nothing, but a disdainful smile curled his lips. “You’ve grown out of them. You and I. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient.
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