" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening.
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