You must forgive the poet’s license I take. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again. "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it that you had the same care, the same chance. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. "Mr.
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